


Anniversary

by sabby1



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anniversary, Coping, Dido - Songs, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), moping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26932795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabby1/pseuds/sabby1
Summary: It's the anniversary of the Final Battle against Thanos (the second one). Peter Quill is only there as a favor to Rocket. Trying to get away from the crowd, he runs into unexpected companionship.OR The maudlin little one where the three Endgame war widow(er)s get to meet.
Relationships: Gamora/Peter Quill, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Quill & Rocket Raccoon, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in May on a weird whim after watching Infinity War/Endgame again and realizing that canonically speaking, Peter, Pepper, and Wanda were the only ones of the main cast who lost their significant other permanently. I wondered what it would look like if those three ever got to sit around the same table. Then this happened.
> 
> It is awfully maudlin, so if that's not your thing this won't be either. Otherwise, feedback and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> ###### 

He’s not sure what the hell he’s doing here, but he’s here all the same, accompanied by his whole family – what’s left of it – and _her._

It’s a bigger crowd than he expected. How lucky that this idyllic lake house is as big as it is and that it has a ton of private property surrounding it. Enough room to park two dozen or so cars and trucks, two M-class spaceships, and a Quinjet.

They are gathered to commemorate the anniversary of the final battle against Thanos – the second one. Down here, they call it the ‘Blip’. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a cheaper shot than calling a fat guy ‘Tiny’.

He doesn’t know most of the faces in the crowd and he doesn’t care about them either. He’s here because Rocket convinced him it’s a good idea to keep in touch with the heroes from Earth. Just in case they ever need a place to lay low or a little extra help with guarding the galaxy.

Everyone seems pretty subdued, standing around and making awkward small talk. A few of them are doing a bad job pretending they’re not staring at his family. It’s got Mantis so twisted up with insecurity, the poor girl is trying to tuck her antennae into her hair.

He can’t wait to get out of here. He hasn’t talked to anyone and has no desire to try. He’s just here as a favor to Rocket.

It doesn’t help that his skin crawls every time he’s in the same room with _her._

“You’re Peter Quill, right?” someone says behind him.

The voice sounds like a con-man trying to butter up a mark, and the firm hand on Peter’s shoulder does nothing to alleviate that slimy feeling.

“Some days,” he says absentmindedly, only half paying attention to the bland human face that goes with the cheap gray suit and red power tie.

Across the room, _she_ is putting an arm around Mantis’s waist and whispering something in her ear that makes her antennae perk up and glow with mirth.

“I’m sorry,” the con-man beside him says, “do you prefer Star-Lord?”

“I prefer not to be bothered.” Peter slides the hand off his shoulder and steps away. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He thinks about making a bee-line for the bathroom and pretending to take the world’s longest dump, but something catches his eye on the way and diverts him to the kitchen.

The space is as rich-people quaint as everything else in this house, but he’s not really interested in the décor. His attention is on the bottle of liquor that sits in the center of the kitchen table.

Jack Daniel’s. Tennessee Whiskey. The bottle looked different back then, but there’s still a big black label on the front and the name is the same. He remembers his granddaddy drinking tons of the stuff after his mom got sick.

He’s so focused on the bottle that he doesn’t even notice the two women sitting around the table until he gets his hand slapped by one of them, trying to pick it up.

“Can I help you?”

He recognizes her the moment their eyes meet. He doesn’t remember her name, but he remembers watching her put the wreath into the water at Tony Stark’s funeral. Her slick hair is the same shade of blonde as it was then, and her face is just as skinny and full of hard lines. She even presses her thin lips together in the same disapproving scowl.

“Sorry,” he says honestly. “I just really need a drink.”

The other woman at the table snorts at his excuse. She’s a younger red-head with a soft, oval face and clear blue eyes.

“There’s plenty of liquor at the open bar out there,” she says pointedly, raising her near empty rocks glass toward the main living area.

“Plenty of people, too,” he grumbles under his breath before he meets her hard stare with a facetious grin. “Sorry, I didn’t realize this was the VIP section.”

The red-head raises her chin and graces him with the kind of smile that’s meant to hurt.

“It’s not,” she says. “It’s the war widows’ table.” 

He huffs out a soundless laugh. His glance cuts between her and Tony Stark’s widow.

“Well, in that case.” He pulls out a chair, sits right down between the two women, and holds out his hand to the red-head. “Nice to meet you. My name’s Peter.”

She gapes at him in surprise before her brows furrow with suspicion, but she doesn’t question him.

“Wanda,” she says and shakes his hand firmly.

He nods and turns his head to the blonde with the narrow face and the permanent frown-lines.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I remember who you are, but I forgot your name.”

“Pepper,” she says.

He nods. “Any chance I can get that drink now, Pepper?”

She gets up from the table and retrieves a rocks glass from one of the cabinets.

“Ice?” she asks neutrally.

“Sure,” he says.

He doesn’t know if it’s better with ice or without. His granddaddy often drank it straight from the bottle. Especially towards the end.

He watches Pepper take the empty glass to the refrigerator. For all the sleek lines and shiny chrome, the built-in ice-maker still makes one hell of a racket to put out three measly cubes.

“Some things never change, I guess,” Peter comments to himself.

Wanda follows his line of sight and twists her lips with a derogatory sniff.

“Americans,” she says. “Like it’s too much work to pop a few cubes out of a plastic tray.”

Peter laughs. He can’t help it. “Let me guess,” he says, “you’re Russian?”

“Sokovian,” she says.

He nods sagely even though he has no idea where that is.

Pepper puts the glass down in front of him and adds a healthy amount of the amber liquor.

“Thanks,” he says while she’s already filling her and Wanda’s glasses – far from the first time by the looks of the bottle.

They don’t talk, and that’s nice. He’s usually good at small talk and idle chit-chat, but, right now, he just wants to drink and watch the minutes crawl by on the old-fashioned analog clock hanging above the door until it’s time to leave.

It’s Pepper who breaks the silence.

“I didn’t know,” she says.

Peter chuckles. “No offense, but that’s not exactly a surprise, is it? I mean, we don’t really know each other.”

If it wasn’t for the fact that they’d fought against the end of the universe on the same battlefield, they probably would have never met.

“Tony used to mention you.”

“Really?” Peter scoffs, “We knew each other for maybe a day before I turned to dust.”

“Let’s just say you made a lasting impression.” Her smile is thin.

And just like that he knows what she’s talking about: his part in letting Thanos get away and ultimately snap half the universe out of existence. 

“Yeah,” he says, “Okay. I get it.”

He picks up his glass and drains the rest of the liquid inside. It’s a little disappointing how mild it is compared to most of the alcoholic concoctions he’s imbibed during his time with the Ravagers.

He sets the empty glass back down on the table and stares into the eyes of the woman who clearly blames him for his part in her husband’s untimely death.

“I lost my cool, all right?” he says. “I was standing face to face with the monster who killed the love of my life, and I lost it. And you can blame me for that all you want, but if you think you could have stood there in my place and kept it together, lady, you’re deluding yourself.”

Their dead-locked stare doesn’t break until Wanda clears her throat.

“What was her name?” she asks quietly.

Peter flinches. He’s been avoiding using her name since _she_ kicked him in the balls on the battlefield somewhere in Upstate New York.

“Gamora,” he says blandly, rolling his shoulders to dislodge the painful knot in the center of his chest.

Pepper does a double-take. Her eyes wander to the living room. Her thin blonde brows draw together in confusion as she moves her arm and aims two fingers toward someone behind his back. He doesn’t need to turn around to know she is pointing at _her._

“I thought that was…” Pepper’s tone is mildly skeptical.

“That may be her name, but she sure ain’t my girl,” he says, sounding more like Yondu than he means to.

Pepper’s frown is unchanged, and she’s still staring past him, out into the living room, at _her_.

“But she’s…”

Peter huffs. “If I took a trip back in time, picked up Tony Stark from before you knew each other, and dropped him in your lap, how’d you feel?”

He can tell the second the penny drops because Pepper stops glancing at _her_ , and the confusion turns into an uncomfortable grimace on her pallid face. Then she refills his glass with a double.

The gesture is appreciated. He nods.

“My Gamora died on a planet called Vormir. About a year ago, from my perspective.”

And then _she_ had showed up – the very next day, from his perspective – and kicked him in the balls. The worst part was that, for a brief moment, he had fully believed _she_ was his Gamora.

That thought still twists his stomach when he wallows in it, lying awake at night.

He picks up his glass and swivels his head to look at Wanda. “What about you?”

Wanda raises her brows and plays with her glass. “What about me?”

Peter can’t help but stick a finger in his own wound. “Do you blame me, too?”

She smiles in that way that’s meant to hurt, but instead of looking at him, she’s looking at Pepper.

“I’ve learned my lesson about misplaced blame,” she says cryptically before her gaze comes back to him. “Vision died on the battlefield in Wakanda. About a year ago, from my perspective.” She drains her glass and refills it. “Because Thanos was smarter and crueler than me.”

Peter jerks in his seat when Wanda flips her free hand over and bright red energy flares to life between her fingers. It looks a little like Ego’s celestial powers and a lot like something you don’t want to mess with.

“There were a million things I could have done,” she says, “but in the moment?” She shakes her head. “I had to kill the love of my life only to watch that monster bring him back and kill him all over again for the Mind Stone, and I lost it.”

She clenches her hand into a fist and snuffs out the red glow. 

Peter nods. “He killed mine for the Soul Stone.”

Pepper doesn’t say anything. They all know how Tony Stark died. Everyone knows.

They take turns refilling their glasses and keep drinking in silence. The minutes tick by on the clock above the door. The party in the living room goes on without them.

“Hey, Pepper, we’re getting a little low on beer out there. Is there any more? If not, I can make a quick run to the store.”

The casual voice belongs to an athletic black guy with an outdated set of external bionic braces around his legs. Peter can hear the mechanical gears whirring as the guy walks across the kitchen and checks in the fridge.

“With those clunkers?” he jokes, “Party’s going to be over before you make it back.”

There are about a dozen places Peter can think of, off the top of his head, that can perform a seriously overdue upgrade to internal body mods. He’s about to offer to hook the guy up with one of his contacts when the fridge door bangs shut and he’s treated to the kind of stone-cold glare that usually precedes a violent brawl.

“No one was talking to you.”

Peter raises his hands and leans back in his chair with an eye-roll. “Sorry.”

Pepper bestows him with a nasty glower before she turns to the guy at the fridge and puts on the kind of warm smile that Peter didn’t think she was physically capable of.

“Thanks for offering, Rhodey. There’s a couple more cases out in the garage. If you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” Rhodey says as he stalks over to the backdoor, bionic braces whirring all the way. He stops with one hand on the open door and turns around to raise his brows at Pepper. “You all right in here?”

It’s not lost on Peter that the guy is non-verbally offering to throw him out on his ear.

Pepper’s smile doesn’t falter. “We’re fine.”

Rhodey nods and heads out, barely not slamming the door behind him.

Peter grumbles. “I just thought he might like an upgrade. I know a guy—”

“Tony made those for him.”

Peter snaps his mouth shut, now that he’s thoroughly put his foot in it. He’s such an ass sometimes without meaning to be. He likes to blame it on his Ravager daddy.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, getting to his feet. He finishes his drink, puts the glass down on the table, and glances from one woman to the other. “I really am, for however much that’s worth.”

He leaves through the same backdoor as Rhodey and heads straight out to where the Benatar is parked on the lawn.

He misses his Milano. The new M-class ship is bigger, newer, and undeniably an upgrade in every single way, but it’s a lot like with the two girls they were named after. Pat Benatar was hot stuff with an amazing voice, but Alyssa Milano was his first crush, hands down, no contest.

He’s always been a sucker for big brown eyes, full dark hair, and a killer smile.

The ache hits him like a fastball to the solar plexus pitched by Drax.

Peter swings around the bulkhead into his cabin and throws himself on his bed. He fumbles blindly behind his head for the Zune in the little compartment at the headboard.

With his earbuds in, he scrolls through the menu until he finds the song, cranks up the volume to max, and hits play.

The deep, reverberating bass of the opening chords flutters in his stomach and tickles his ears. He closes his eyes as soon as the soft voice of the female singer overlaps the sounds.

_I didn’t hear you leave. I wonder how am I still here_. 

Somewhere along the middle of the first verse, he starts to sing along under his breath.

He’s trying to hit the notes of the final chorus when the buds are violently ripped from his ears.

His eyes snap open to a furry face with awful stank-breath and razor-sharp teeth snarling less than an inch from his nose.

“If you don’t stop listening to that krutackin’ howler of a song, I’m gonna put you to rest right here. Permanently.”

Rocket slaps a sharp-clawed paw across his cheek to emphasize his point before he jumps off his chest and trots off, his ringed tail twitching at its bushiest. He stops on the threshold and looks over his shoulder, dark button eyes squeezed thin under his heavy white brows.

“We all miss her, Quill,” he says gruffly, “and suffocatin’ yourself won’t bring her back this time, so knock it off.”

Rocket clearly doesn’t expect an answer. At least, he walks off without waiting for one. That’s for the best, because Peter honestly doesn’t have anything to say.

Telling him not to act like this is like telling Drax to speak in metaphors. It’s just not in his nature.

Peter puts the earbuds back in, lays back down, and throws an arm over his eyes. The playlist has moved on to something upbeat and guitar heavy.

It doesn’t matter what song he plays, anyway. They all remind him of his Gamora.


End file.
